


The Adventures of Malediction Device: Pulsifer's Chase

by James_Usari



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24714325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/James_Usari/pseuds/James_Usari
Summary: Evil forces are abroad. Agents of the US government, the witchfinding Pinkerton agency, and an Angel and a Demon, are all looking for the lost heir of Agnes Nutter and the book of prophecies she carries. Malediction must make it to Mexico before the treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo enters into force, turning California into a US territory, where she will never be safe.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: Verb Roulette





	The Adventures of Malediction Device: Pulsifer's Chase

**El Cajon, California, Mexico**

**29th of May 1848**

The _Salón de los Angeles_ immediately fell silent as two men entered through its swaying doors. One wore a black suit, bowler hat and black-tinted glasses, to protect his eyes from the sun. The other wore a white suit, which he dusted off meticulously, before putting a monocle on his right eye. They looked around the saloon, inspecting the current patrons for their quarry. There were three people present. The barkeep, broad-shouldered with a bushy white beard, stood up from the piano which he had presumably been playing and sped towards the bar, tossing his cleaning rag over his shoulder. To their right, next to the window, sat a man with an even bushier black beard, whistling ‘Row row row your boat’ just slightly out of tune. To their left, in a dark corner, sat a man whose eyes were covered by the wide brim of his hat. From his hip hung a rapier, which indicated this man was a traveller of means.

The white-suited man, nearly tripping over a piece of loose flooring, managed to get to the bar, striking up some conversation with the barkeep. The black-suited man looked from the black beard to the swordsman, contemplating who had the most pertinent information. He elected to talk to the swordsman, and with a queer gate he approached him. The man did not look up, even as the black suit came up right beside him.

“Share a table with a stranger?” he asked, a thick, exaggerated Texan drawl enveloping every word like a comfortable blanket.

“Be my guest” the swordsman said, gesturing towards the empty seat in front. Even as the black suit sat down and took off his own bowler hat, revealing messy, red hair, the swordsman did not remove his own hat.

“You up for a game of dice, Sunglasses?” the swordsman said, his own voice gravelled and deep, yet with a song-like quality found in opera. The black suit cocked his head.

“Dice… a sinful game… Count me in” he answered, conjuring a hint of a smile on his new-found opponents face. The swordsman conjured from his pocket two dice and put them on the table.

“Who are you, and what brings you to El Cajon, stranger?” he asked. He black suit looked at him hesitantly, his eyes invisibly shifting behind his sunglasses to his white-suited partner at the bar.

“We are… Pinkerton agents” he said, hesitantly. “We are looking for a woman”

“Pinkertons!” the swordsman answered, rolling the dice in his hand. “Your government won’t have jurisdiction here until noon tomorrow, correct? According to the Treaty” The Swordsman asked. The self-professed Pinkerton agent scratched himself behind the ear.

“Yes, we are here to ensure that certain interests of the United States are not… irreparably damaged” the black suit answered. “Our government has deployed a lot of… resources… to ensure that this damage does not occur”

“You want information?” the swordsman said. His tone shifted from one of gravelly disinterest to one of gravelly consideration. “In return for money?”

“Pretty much, yeah” the black suit answered. From his own jacket, he conjured a thick wad of US dollar bills, which would replace the peseta as legal tender in a little over a day. Those who had dollar bills then would be rich man of prestige. The swordsman pursed his lips, and began throwing the dice between his hands. The black suit placed the stack on the table.

“What kind of woman are you looking for?” asked the swordsman.

“A witch” the Pinkerton said. “Self-professed” he added quickly, to pre-empt any sigh of disbelief.

“The US government has interest in a witch?” came the still disbelieving answer. The Pinkerton nodded. “Or rather, a book in her possession. My… partner, there” he added, pointing towards the white-suited gentleman, “… travelled here from London. He has a vested interest in the contents of that book”

“A spell book? Or a ledger?” the swordsman inquired.

“A bit of both” the black suit answered. “That’s all you need to know. Have you seen her?”

The swordsman drummed some on the table with his fingers. He growled, his lips pursing again beneath the brim of his hat.

“Can’t say I have” he said after a few moments, much to the chagrin of the black suit. He had been traveling for days, and he was sure the woman had to be in this town. She could not have gotten far. Or perhaps she could have, if the Enemy had gotten there before them. He took a quick look around the room, but he could only see the giant barman, his own partner and the black bearded man, still whistling a variety of off-key tunes.

“She could have been with two companions. Two strange characters, you might have seen them pass by” the black suit added.

“What do they look like?” the swordsman said, now preparing to make his first actual throw of the dice. As they bounced around on the table, spinning as they went, the black suit gave a description.

“We know that one is a white-haired marksman, and the other…” he said, hesitating for a moment.

“Had…” he tried, but at that moment, the dice revealed their numbers. One dot on each, staring towards the ceiling. The black suit looked up to the swordsman, who had now levelled his hat to show his yellow eyes, with black slits where his irises should be.

“Snake eyes?” the swordsman yelled, a wily grin crawling over his face. Before the black suit could yell out in horror, Crowley launched his boot against his opponent’s shin, which made him double over in pain. Then, standing up, he flipped the table over, launching the Pinkerton through the window with a loud crash of glass.

At the bar, the white-suited gentleman turned around on shock, dumb-founded by the sudden outbreak of violence. As he saw the snake-eyed Demon in his all-black outfit, pulling the rapier from its scabbard, he let out a scream of terror. He started fumbling with his revolver. Crowley seemed confused for a moment, looking at the giant barkeep in frustration.

“Angel! Snake eyes!?!” he said. The barkeep seemed to remember what that meant.

“Oh, yes! Of course…” he answered, producing a heavy glass beer stein and breaking it over the monocle’s head, allowing him to drop to the floor like a ragdoll. Both him and Aziraphale seemed surprised by this turn of events, although the Angel was the only one who could actually voice distress.

“Oh, I hope he fainted before it hurt” he said apologetically.

“I hope he didn’t” Crowley said. In a few strides he found himself at the bar, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“They’re Witchfinders, here for the Book. Apparently, this guy is after it” Crowley explained, prodding the unconscious man with the nose of his boot.

“I would have loved to talk to him about it” Aziraphale said, gently placing the handle of the former beer stein on the countertop and producing a few dollar coins to pay for the damage.

“In a different life, perhaps.” Crowley answered, turning to the black-bearded man who was still staring out the window.

“Mrs. Device?” he asked, not causing the least bit of reaction in the man.

“Malediction?” he added, now in a firm tone. It was as if the man was suddenly awoken from a deep slumber, and she immediately pulled off the fake beard that had hidden her identity from the Pinkertons.

“Sorry, I was really invested in my role. I was _John Johnson_ , a poor man coming to look for gold out west, desperately in search for… Anyway, I’ll tell you later. Can I keep the beard?” she said enthusiastically.

“Is that really…” Crowley tried, but before he could finish Aziraphale cut him off as he jumped over the counter, rifle in hand. 

“Of course! Feel free, dear. It looks good on you, and John Johnson sounds like a fascinating character. We are terribly sorry to be an inconvenience”

“Though, not as much an inconvenience as they would have been” Crowley added, walking towards the broken window. During the struggle, the Pinkerton had dropped his sunglasses, which Crowley proceeded to put on his nose. He looked over to Aziraphale and pointed at the tinted glasses, but a stern look from the Angel made it so his grin vanished.

“Yes, if we were to be in a judging mood, one could make that assumption” Aziraphale said semi-sternly, folding his arms “However…”

“Gentlemen” Malediction Device interrupted, peering out the door of the saloon. “We might want to continue this conversation elsewhere. Someone’s coming”

Not five moments after she had said that, the doors of the saloon swung open. In walked James ‘I-would-do-anything-for-the-US-of-A-as-long-as-it-involves-killing-someone’ Pulsifer, accompanied by the blowing dust of a gathering storm. As he strode, the heavy iron spurs on his boots rung like tiny bells on a Christmas elf’s boot. Pulsifer wore the uniform of a captain of the 24th Regiment of United States cavalry, well-known for their victory in 100 battles. Their motto, ‘Never on the firing end’, referred to their superior tactic of never engaging an enemy who could fight back. Thus far, it had never led them astray.

James Pulsifer was many things, but no-one could claim he wasn’t a gentleman. No-one who could, at that moment, vote in US elections, anyway. As soon as he saw two women, accompanied by their chaperone, approach him, he could not help but make a slight bow, and he stepped aside to let them through. With quite some flare, he removed his hat as well.

“My ladies, Sir” he said as the three former occupants left the saloon. His eyes jerked upwards in his skull to catch a glimpse of the beautiful women passing by. The first giggled as she passed. She was dressed in a white gown that would make many a European countess jealous, frilly and ornate as it was. Her white eyelashes fluttered in the wind like banners on the battlefield, and her heavenly blue eyes gazed in the captain’s direction for a time that betrayed a romantic interest, or so the captain believed.

She was shoved through the door by her female acquaintance. She had a stern look about her, and wore something that could have been a long skirt, but it could have been wide trousers as well. It was hard to tell from a momentary, gentlemanly ogle. On her nose, she wore the latest in fashion: dark-tinted sunglasses to protect her delicate, female eyes. Whether it was on purpose or by accident, one side of the skirt lifted just an inch too high, and James saw some part of the lady’s ankle, but he proceeded as if nothing had happened to save her from further embarrassment.

“I’m John Johnson” the chaperone introduced himself as he passed by, an incredibly deep voice emanating from his lush beard. Johnson extended his hand, forcing James to shake it. His grip was manly and firm, to the point of being painful, but James pretended not to notice.

“I’m out here looking for gold to feed my family back home. The youngest one is starving, you see, and the middle one has academic potential. But alas, we are poor” Johnson explained, seemingly without rhyme or reason, and James simply nodded.

“That’s a tragic story” the captain said in a pitiful tone. Johnson swept an imaginary tear from his desert-dry eyes.

“Thank you” he answered, before being pulled out of the saloon by his black-clad companion. James shook his head and walked further into the saloon, looking for the colleagues he had rode into town with.

“Fell! Pinkerton! You got her?” he asked, walking towards the bar. The white-clad barman was lying face down over the counter, his cleaning rag draped over his shoulders. James snickered.

“You had a good evening, barkeep?” the captain asked jovially.

“Uggghhhh….” The white-suited man replied. James could not help but conjure a big grin. Suddenly, a droughty wind blew through the saloon, blowing in dust through a broken window.

“Barkeep, how long has that been broken? An establishment such as this should…”

At that moment, he saw the bruised but familiar head of Allan Pinkerton, sans his regular sunglasses, pop up above the window. James looked down at what he imagined had been the barkeep, only to recognise his companion Andrew Zeno Fell, waking up from an apparent blow to the head. He looked at the saloon door in disgust and shame, quickly drawing his army pattern revolver.

“Wily bastards…”

__

The three conspirators turned to running as soon as they had left the captain’s view. Malediction pulled off her beard and began shoving it in her bag, careful not to disturb the large book that sat snuggly in the leather. Before she had stowed her beard, though, her new companions had already transformed back to their more recognisable forms. If Malediction had not been a witch, she would have found this odd. Malediction did not find this odd.

“Why don’t you keep your feminine forms more often? They suit you” she said, almost slipping as they passed a sharp corner. Without so much as a nod, the three had decided that the train station was their best bet, as there was a train there ready to depart.

“We adventure, madam!” the white-haired barkeep said. “Stealth and subterfuge are boring. Hiding is a devilish… I mean, fiendish trick” he continued, dodging a passer-by with agility that, given his large mass, would not have been expected. Of course, he could have just shoved them aside, but that did not seem like his modus operandi.

“Besides… Plaid will not be in fashion for women for another…”

“140 years or so, yeah” Malediction said, looking down her bag to check if the large book was still undisturbed.

“And you?” she asked the black-clad swordsman, who unlike his larger companion did not mind bumping into people. In fact, he more closely resembled a pinball than a man on the run.

“Who says I’m in masculine form?” Crowley said simply. They arrived at the train station just as the whistle for departure blew. Steam bellowed from the smokestack as the wheels started churning on the tracks. People from all over town had gathered to wave goodbye to their loved ones, or at least perform some last act of outward familiarity before being rid of them for a couple of weeks. The three adventurers clambered aboard one of the luxury cabins, at Aziraphale’s insistence, and sat around one of the tables set up for the traveller’s convenience. Malediction and Crowley slumped back in their seats, while Aziraphale began to neatly arrange the various table ornaments, including salt and pepper shakers, into a more aesthetic whole.

“So, where are we going?” Malediction asked, peering out the window. Beyond the tracks stretched the vast lands of California, which would in a few hours transfer from the Mexican empire into the hands of the United States by virtue of the treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo. Only a few moments more, and the Pinkertons, the spiritual successor to the witchfinders of old, would have unfettered access to the territory. Then, it would take more than two semi-professional bodyguards to keep them at bay.

“South, I think” Aziraphale said, as he tried out different formations of a small potted plant and a napkin dispenser in relation to the menu. “Mexico has moved far beyond its witch hunter days. And they have little interest in an English-language book of prophecies”

Malediction’s face turned grey at the mention of the Nice and Accurate Prophecies. She bolted upright, putting a guarding hand upon her leather bag.

“Don’t worry, we’re not interested either” Crowley said. Aziraphale gave him a quick sidewards glance, but swiftly confirmed what his companion had to say, even if it was begrudgingly. Malediction wanted to press her question, but the table was silenced by the arrival of the moustached conductor.

“Tickets, please” he said. Before Aziraphale could try to fumble his way out of having to produce tickets, Malediction reached into her bag and procured the Nice and Accurate Prophecies. She flipped through a few pages, and then produced three tickets, handing them over to the conductor. The conductor frowned as he saw them, turning them over a few times and taking out his own instruction manual for reference.

“Well, this is highly irregular… Everything that could be wrong about these tickets is wrong, but everything that matters checks out. Which is all I care about, really. What can I get you for lunch?”

“Some bread and tomato sauce, please” Malediction said, without looking up from the Prophecies.

“The sauce uses corn starch, correct?” she asked. The conductor nodded.

“Alright, then. And could we get a plate of olives?”

“Certainly, madam” the conductor replied, moving swiftly towards the kitchen in the back wagon. Before long, the three were enjoying the benefits of two hundred year old forged tickets, happily provided by Malediction’s ancestor.

“What are you two going to do? More adventurer’s business?” Malediction asked, as she started helping Aziraphale with his arrangement. Her addition was placing a fork under the pepper shaker, which Aziraphale saw as strange but oddly pleasing to the eyes. Crowley and Aziraphale looked at one another, and sniggered.

“Darling” Aziraphale began. “We are not on adventurer’s business. We’re both on vacation” he explained. “The last time I had a vacation was in 1103. I submitted paperwork for this vacation in 1780, but then the French Revolution happened. The backlog in paperwork was tremendous, but…”

“Interesting” Malediction said with all the false sincerity she could muster.

“And you?” she turned to Crowley, who had tipped his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes to give them some rest.

“In my organisation, the only rule for a vacation is that you don’t notify anyone in advance and that it be done in the most inconvenient time possible. For example, during the liberal revolutions in…”

Before Crowley could finish his sentence, however, the doors of their cabin opened. First the conductor entered, but he was followed closely by three familiar men: one in his blue military uniform, another in a white suit, and a third in a black suit. Pulsifer, Fell and Pinkerton, without so much as an introduction, sat down at the table. They were covered in dust, apparently having chased the train on horseback. The eyes of Pinkerton and Fell were filled with resentment, and captain Pulsifer had a wide grin on his face not dissimilar to that of a cat having caught a bird. Gloatingly, Pulsifer took a piece of bread, dipped it in the sauce, and took a bite, as if to show that by conquering their snacks, he had conquered them.

“Mrs. Device” Pinkerton said through gritted teeth. “You are under arrest and under our jurisdiction. Please…”

“God, this is great stuff” Captain Pulsifer said, licking his fingers. He dipped another piece of bread in the tomato sauce.

“Really, you have to try this, Allan” he said, handing over the snack to his compatriot, who begrudgingly accepted the treat before continuing.

“Anyway, you are under arrest, blah blah, rights, just hand the book over the Mr. Fell, if you please” he said, taking a bite from the bread. “Wow, this _is_ really good” he added. The eyes of Andrew Fell lit up with excitement, and his annoyed grimace turned into a wide grin. His grabby claws, veiled in white gloves, came up from under the table. Malediction met their gaze with a piercing one of her own.

“No, I don’t think I will” she said. Captain Pulsifer put his hand on his sabre, and scoffed. “Come on now, you’ve got nowhere to go. You’re surrounded”

“But we have you infiltrated” Malediction answered. “How’s the corn allergy, Alan?”

Pinkerton’s eyes suddenly widened as he looked down at the tomato sauce. His face had begun to turn red, and his eyes were starting to water. Where he had held the bread, his skin turned itchy, and his skin began to swell up.

“Don’t worry, his allergy is not deadly, it’s just an inconvenience. Much like pepper in your eyes” Malediction noted. With that, she smashed down on the fork lodged under the pepper shaker, launching it towards the ceiling. There, the top came off, raining pepper down on their assailants. Before they had time to react, Crowley, Aziraphale and Malediction jumped past them, only narrowly missing the clawing fingers of captain Pulsifer, now blinded by a pepper assault. However, Pulsifer, who was used to dust on the campaign trail, quickly recuperated, while Pinkerton and Fell were still crawling on the floor.

“You go ahead” Crowley exclaimed, turning around to face Pulsifer. “I’ll hold him off”

With the sound of singing steel, Crowley drew his rapier from its scabbard, placing his feet in a fighting stance and pointing the tip of the sword towards Pulsifer, who was stopped in his tracks. He drew his own heavy cavalry sabre. The sabre was more dangerous on the slash, but lacked a sufficient stabbing point, and was less wieldy than the rapier.

“I liked you better when you wore a dress!” Pulsifer snarled, hoping to enrage his opponent. Crowley simply pulled up his shoulders, and snapped his fingers. His trousers became wider and wider until they joined together.

“I’m happy to oblige” he answered. Pulsifer’s first attack was way too cocky, a wild overhead swing which Crowley could easily sidestep, whacking Pulsifer’s wrist with the broad of his blade.

“Don’t insult me, captain” Crowley said mockingly. “And watch your stance” he added, flicking his wrist to send his blade towards the side of Pulsifer’s head. The captain parried it, but the weight of the blow send him staggering for a moment. Quickly recuperating, the captain threw a few standard strikes, also deflected with relative ease. With every swing, the captain began to loose his temper. Every next blow became more powerful, forcing Crowley back step by step, until a hard sideward blow threw Crowley’s rapier from his hand, sticking into the wall of the carriage. Pulsifer put his sabre against the side of Crowley’s neck.

“Alright, I surrender!” the Demon exclaimed. For a moment, the captain seemed disappointed, but being a true gentleman-officer, he lowered his sabre and placed it back in its scabbard.

“Well then, if you would…” Pulsifer began, but before he could do so Crowley hooked his own foot behind the captain’s ankle, pulling back and throwing him to the ground. With a wave of his hand the blade, as by magic, detached from the wall and moved back into his hand, allowing him to place the point of the blade on the Pulsifer’s chest.

“Sue me” the Demon said, watching outside as the train passed harmlessly into what territory Mexico would maintain after the Treaty.

“Thank you for helping us apprehend these individuals” the border guard said, watching closely as Mexican soldiers lined up and chained Pulsifer, Pinkerton and Fell. “We can probably exchange them for some more of our prisoners down the line”

“Happy to oblige!” Aziraphale said, having finally been convinced that their brief stint of lawlessness was in the end still lawful, in some way.

“The reward will help Miss Device build a life for herself here”

“Speaking of a reward…” the border guard said, picking up a leather wallet from a table and opening it, revealing some paperwork.

“Apparently, the gentleman in the white suit owns the rights to a bookstore in London, specialised In ancient books”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up at the news.

“Any of you interested?” the guard asked. “He’s probably going to jail for quite some time”

“It would technically be theft” Crowley noted to his friend, who was clasping together his hands at the thought. A slight hesitation slithered across his face.

“Well, it wouldn’t be theft, exactly…” Aziraphale reasoned. “I would be taking care of it for a while.”

“Until he returns, yes?” Crowley added.

“Ohh, yes!” Aziraphale answered unconvincingly. “If… when he returns…”

“Well, gentlemen, ladies…” Malediction said to the pair, as she got back on the train. The steam whistle blew for their departure. “It has been a pleasure, but I don’t think the world could handle us being together for longer. Armageddon is not supposed to happen for some time, after all”

“A shame, really” Aziraphale said. “We would make a remarkable team”

“A shame” Malediction answered. “But according to Agnes, the velocipede with shifting gears needs to be invented first, whatever that means” The witch pulled her bag closer to her. “Adios!”

“Adios!” the Angel replied, watching the train slowly glide southwards. Crowley made a short two-fingered salute, and the two watched Malediction pass out of sight. Aziraphale sighed.

“So, California was nice. Where do we go next?” the Angel asked his partner. Crowley looked towards the west, his fingers lightly tapping his rapier.

“You know… I have always wanted to see how katanas are made…”

**Author's Note:**

> Allan Pinkerton's corn allergy is not a deadly allergy, it's just very uncomfortable. No Pinkerton agents were maimed or seriously injured during the writing of this sequence.
> 
> The verb for the Verb Roulette challenge was 'to adventure'


End file.
